Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge
by Vi Co
Summary: Fresh from Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter believes that the extent of his worries have finally become whether or not he will be accepted for Auror training. Little does he know.
1. Anything but Ordinary

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge  
**  
I  
  
Anything but Ordinary  
  
  


Harry Potter, having finally finished his final year of magical instruction at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, slowly eased the door to his small bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive open a crack and listened carefully for any sound coming from the Dursleys. He heard nothing and after a second dared to push the door open wide enough to slip out. Looking carefully up and down the hall before moving from the safety of the doorway, Harry was startled to see Dudley in the process of climbing out the window at the end of the hall.  
  


Both Harry and Dudley froze, staring at one another uneasily, each unsure of what the other would do. Dudley's hands clenched into fists and he shook them at Harry menacingly. In response, Harry drew out the wand that was always at his side. Dudley's eyes widened. It was now only a matter of who would blink first. After a second, Harry started making his way quietly toward the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Dudley climb the rest of the way out the window and ease it down behind him. Harry was surprised that the garden trellis was strong enough to support Dudley's weight, but obviously enough it was.  
  


Cautiously Harry continued down the dark stairs to the living room. "Lumos," he whispered quietly, holding his hand over the luminous tip of his wand to shield some of the light. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary and was about to go into the living room when he heard something that caused him to stop in his tracks.  
  


"How much longer are we to be expected to keep that boy in our house?" Harry heard Uncle Vernon ask irritably.  
  


"Nox," Harry hissed softly, putting out the light of his wand before his aunt and uncle noticed. But all the while, he was listening carefully for Aunt Petunia's answer. While he wasn't overly eager to stay at the Dursleys', he didn't exactly want to be kicked out on the street either, which was likely to happen if he were caught eavesdropping.  
  


"Only a little longer, Vernon," was her soft answer.  
  


"Honestly, Petunia," Uncle Vernon said, his voice already rising in volume, "now that he's finished at that school, there's nothing stopping him from blasting us into oblivion with that thing he's always carrying about with him. And now that that Voldything is dead, there is absolutely no reason for him to still be living under our roof." Then Uncle Vernon's voice rose threateningly. "Or have you forgotten everything he and his kind have done to us?"  
  


In the slight pause before Aunt Petunia answered, Harry felt his temper rising. Uncle Vernon had no idea what disaster Harry and 'his kind' had avoided, not only for themselves, but also for Muggles. That Voldything would have gladly wiped the world of Uncle Vernon and his kind.  
  


"He's Lily's son," Aunt Petunia answered, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Harry's jaw dropped. Where had that answer come from? Surely, it wasn't the Aunt Petunia that he knew.  
  


"I WILL NOT HAVE THAT WOMAN'S NAME MENTIONED IN MY HOUSE!" Uncle Vernon roared instantly in reaction to Lily's name.  
  


"That woman was my sister!" Aunt Petunia shrilled in response.  
  


"Sister or no, I will not have that woman's name mentioned in this house," he bellowed back. "IT'S NOT NATURAL!"  
  


"BE QUIET OR YOU'LL WAKE DUDLEY!" Aunt Petunia screamed, the volume of her voice matching that of her husband's. It was obvious she wasn't thinking about Dudley at all.  
  


"Honestly, Petunia, that boy has been nothing but trouble since the day he was born, and to hear you talk it almost sounds like you want him here, like he was normal, like he were one of us." Uncle Vernon's voice was almost dripping with scorn. Harry released his stranglehold on his wand. He didn't want to accidentally curse his uncle without meaning to.  
  


Aunt Petunia didn't answer and after a few seconds, Harry heard the springs on the chesterfield squeak as they were relieved of Uncle Vernon's immense bulk. Hurriedly Harry dashed up the stairs to his room. He did not want to be caught out of his room or he would find himself out on the street. Listening, Harry heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps move down the hall to his bedroom. Waiting until it was once again safe to venture out, Harry paced back and forth across his small bedroom anxiously.  
  


Earlier, he had been working on a form from the Ministry of Magic and he had hastily shoved them into a book when Aunt Petunia had arrived back from the market earlier than he expected her. Now, he desperately needed the forms; he had to finish filling them out and return them first thing in the morning. If he didn't get them in, he would have to wait until next year to start training for a career.  
  


When enough time had passed that Harry felt safe venturing out, he once again cracked open his door and crept down the hall, his wand lighting the way.  
  


The light in the living room was off and Harry didn't see Aunt Petunia sitting on the chesterfield until it was too late. He had already made his way to the book he needed and had removed his papers when he turned around and saw her sitting there.  
  


"I was just getting some papers," he explained lamely, the tip of his wand still glowing brightly. Aunt Petunia looked at him as though she hadn't seen him before. "I'm, um, going back up to bed now," Harry stammered.  
  


She nodded briefly and Harry hurried to the stairs. But, behind him he heard Aunt Petunia whisper, "He's all that I have left of her."  
  


Later that night, as Harry lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, he couldn't help but wonder at Aunt Petunia. While Harry had always known that Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister, she had never shown that it was anything but a disgrace. Or, Harry reflected, at least she had never shown it to him. But, there had been something in the way that Uncle Vernon had reacted at the mention of his mother's name that made Harry wonder just why Aunt Petunia never mentioned her sister. What was it that Uncle Vernon had bellowed? 'I will not have that woman's name mentioned in my house!' That was it. But why?  
  


Was Uncle Vernon responsible for the disdain towards wizards and magic? Or was it Aunt Petunia? Or, was it both, as Harry had always thought? As he tossed and turned, he tried to remember all of the arguments that had happened over the years they had had about magic. Maybe they would provide a clue to the strange argument that he had overheard that night.  
  


As he drifted off to sleep, fragments of conversations came back to him, but nothing that made any sense. At least nothing when he remembered that she and Uncle Vernon had taken him in as a baby and knowingly kept him safe. Even after everything that had happened, they had kept him safe from Voldemort. And Harry had difficulty reconciling that thought with the attitudes that he had grown up with, just as he had since he had found out what his aunt and uncle had done for him. Maybe in relation to Aunt Petunia's behaviour tonight, it made a little more sense. But only a little more.  
  
  


Harry awoke far too early the next morning to Aunt Petunia's sharp rapping on his door. "Get up, boy," she said harshly, no hint of last night's sentimentality remaining. "We need to take Dudley into London for his match and you're not staying here alone. There's no telling what little bits we'd find the house in when we returned."  
  


Harry groaned softly. He had forgotten that Dudley was in a match up in London this afternoon. Harry had been up until nearly five trying to finish answering the seemingly endless questionnaires that the Ministry of Magic required before they could guarantee any career training. And they wanted to know everything from the most trivial (What is your favourite flavour of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans?) to the most relevant (Have you ever been charged with a criminal offence for which you have not been pardoned?) and everything in between. He honestly wondered if anyone even read the answers or if the Ministry had a quota for the amount of paper work that had to be filed each year and were a little short.  
  


But between the hundreds of questions and his pondering over his aunt's strange behaviour Harry hadn't gotten more than an hour or two of sleep and he wasn't looking forward to going.  
  


"Aunt Petunia," he asked groggily, "if I'm not staying here alone, am I going to London?" If he hadn't been half-asleep, he never would have asked that question.  
  


"Take you into London?" she laughed. Then her beady eyes squinted down into slits. But a cruel, mocking edge remained in her voice. "Why? So that you can set another snake after someone? Or hijack another flying car? I don't think so. You're going to Mrs Figg's. And don't think about trying any funny business or you'll find yourself out on the street faster than you can say one of your nasty incantations."  
  


Harry groaned again as Aunt Petunia swept out of the room and on down the hall. Not only did he not want to have to get out of his warm bed, he wasn't ready for the motherly attention that Mrs Figg, a Squib who knew everything that happened in the wizarding world, usually lavished on him when the Dursleys were far enough away that they couldn't see. And whenever he was cautioned that there was to be no funny business, that was the time that something out of the ordinary happened causing him to use magic.  
  


At least this time he couldn't be charged for underage use of magic. And since Mrs Figg was a Squib, he wouldn't be doing magic in front of Muggles. Today should run smoothly without any Ministry interference. And, Harry reflected, he might even get the chance to stretch out on one of Mrs Figg's couches and, if he could ignore the overwhelming odour of cat, get a little more sleep.  
  


Later Harry realised that his first mistake was likely thinking that everything would go fine and it would be a normal day. To assume that everything would run smoothly was like asking for something out of the ordinary to happen. And to Harry, out of the ordinary was becoming dangerously close to being normal.  
  


However, he wasn't thinking of that as he got ready to be escorted to Mrs Figg's. He was trying to find a book to take with him that wasn't obviously magical to Uncle Vernon. He didn't know how long he would be over at Mrs Figg's but he wanted a polite excuse to avoid looking through albums containing picture of every cat she had ever owned.  
  


"Hurry boy!" Uncle Vernon's bellow floated up the stairs, "There'll be no lie in for you!" Then came the stomping footsteps on the stairs.  
  


Harry grabbed the first book he laid hands on and bolted for the stairs. Uncle Vernon would not be pleased if he had to mount all of the stairs in search of Harry. If he made them late for Dudley's bout against the public school heavyweight champion, there would be hell to pay.  
  


If he could have been sure where Aunt Petunia and Dudley were, he would have Apparated downstairs and given Uncle Vernon no reason to yell at him. But if he accidentally picked the wrong room and appeared out of nowhere in front of them, it would almost be worth his life for the blatant display of his abnormality.  
  


In his rush to meet Uncle Vernon before he made the top of the stairs, Harry heard his wand catch on his door and fall with a clatter to the floor. He was turning back to pick it up when Uncle Vernon caught sight of him. Out stretched the fat arm to capture him. "If you make us miss Dudley's match I'll rip you limb from limb," Uncle Vernon growled. Harry dashed back, trying to grab his wand before Uncle Vernon caught him, but it wasn't to be. His fingertips had just touched smooth wood when he felt himself being pulled backwards at an alarming rate. His wand slipped out of reach and Harry found himself wandless for the first time in nearly four years.  
  


That was probably the second sign that it was going to be a day out of the ordinary had Harry been looking for signs. But he wasn't looking for signs. He was trying to stop Uncle Vernon from taking the book he had grabbed, the photograph album of his parents.  
  


"What's that you're holding, boy?" Uncle Vernon had demanded harshly, keeping a firm grip on Harry's upper arm. He considerably less intimidated by Harry when Harry didn't have his wand.  
  


"It's just something to read while I'm over at Mrs Figg's," Harry answered. Inwardly he was hoping that the cover of the book didn't have anything magical on it. At least it wasn't The Monster's Book of Monster's otherwise it would have taken a big bite out of Harry, and likely Uncle Vernon too.  
  


"Well, let's see it, boy," Uncle Vernon said as he reached out to grab the book from Harry's hand. The plain leather cover had nothing out of the ordinary on it and Harry finally recognised which book he had happened upon. But if Uncle Vernon decided to open it, the moving photographs would set the book up for destruction.  
  


Uncle Vernon appraised the plain exterior and flipped the edges of the pages. He was ready to open it and look through the album when Dudley spoke up.  
  


"He's going to make us late. We're going to miss my match," he whimpered, glaring at Harry. Dudley apparently didn't seem to be suffering any ill effects for his little excursion last night.  
  


Aunt Petunia went right over to him. "Don't worry Dudkins; we won't let nasty Harry make us late. We've got time to stop for a treat before your match too. We don't want you on an empty stomach."  
  


Uncle Vernon slapped the book at Harry's chest and snarled, "Come along boy." Then he smiled up at Dudley and Aunt Petunia. "Why don't the two of you wait in the car? I'll just make sure that Harry gets there without blasting anyone." And with that, he proceeded to almost separate Harry's arm from his body as he yanked Harry out the door.  
  


Harry allowed Uncle Vernon to drag him down Privet Drive to Mrs Figg's house. It was too early for any neighbours to be watching so Uncle Vernon could be as uncivilised as he wanted. Harry didn't complain because he knew that it would only make Uncle Vernon more annoyed and unpleasant, if that were possible.  
  


Mrs Figg was awake and waiting for them. When Uncle Vernon was looking, her face was almost blank of expression, making her seem not quite all there. But when he back was turned, she was beaming over-enthusiastic smiles in Harry's direction. Harry wasn't sure which of the two looks he preferred. The smile was too cheerful for his half-awake state but the blank look reminded him of someone who had been petrified. And he didn't like to think about that if he could help it.  
  


"Don't let him give you any trouble," Uncle Vernon growled. "And if he does, I want to know about it."  
  


Mrs Figg nodded, a little too eagerly perhaps. "I'm sure he won't be a bit of trouble," she cooed, sounding as though Harry was still a young child. But it did serve to placate Uncle Vernon. Or at least, that was how it appeared to Harry until Uncle Vernon turned back to him.  
  


"If you even so much as think about doing any of your funny business, I'll have you out on the street so fast it will make your head spin. And then I'll see to it that you spend the rest of your natural life, longer if I can help it, in gaol, where your lot belongs, rotting out of sight." Then, before Harry had time to blurt anything out in his fury, Uncle Vernon was gone, waddling across the street as fast as his podgy legs could carry him.  
  


Harry and Mrs Figg waited on the front steps until the car had pulled out the Dursleys driveway and was continuing its safe way down Privet Drive. When the car had gone and Mrs Figg no longer had to worry about keeping up a pretence for Uncle Vernon, she broke out into that over-bright smile once more and herded him into her foyer.  
  


Harry was familiar with the drill by now and immediately reached down to untie the laces on his trainers. He was mildly surprised to find that no cats were brushing his ankles, but he was too exhausted to really take much notice. Usually at least two had congregated around him by this time. That might have been another sign, but Harry still wasn't looking for them.  
  


His shoes removed without incident, and interference from felines, Harry was shepherded along to the kitchen table where Mrs Figg had set out her usual fare of dry toast, weak tea, and stale cake. Harry had never quite figured out if that was what she usually served guests, if that was the fare she had been instructed to serve by Uncle Vernon, or she was still trying to keep up appearances.  
  


Yawning widely and setting the photo album beneath his chair, Harry sat down for breakfast. Not once had Mrs Figg ever asked him if he wanted milk or sugar with his tea, and so he didn't expect it this time. Instead he just reached for his lukewarm cup. At least it would wake him up a little.  
  


As Harry munched his way slowly through the unappetising fare, Mrs Figg darted around the kitchen, fussily preparing breakfast for her cats. Harry, when he had been younger, had once reflected that she probably spent more time preparing the food for her cats than she spent preparing his food. And it was probably true. But it was starting to seem a little odd that none of the cats had made an appearance. However, it wasn't odd enough that it triggered any alarms. Maybe it should have.  
  


But there would be plenty of time for those reflections later, when all of the pieces had come together. But for now, Harry Potter, considered by many to either be developing into the most powerful wizard known for centuries or the luckiest wizard in centuries, was thinking only of how much better the toast would have tasted with a little marmalade.  
  


He had actually stopped noticing Mrs Figg's movements until he heard a scraping sound behind him, one that he thought was her putting out the bowls of cat food. At least, he thought that until he looked up and saw her in front of him, staring at a spot somewhere above his head with a look of utter horror on her face.  
  


Harry whipped around to face whatever was standing behind him and found himself face to face with a hooded figure. For a moment his mind flashed through the various possibilities. It couldn't be a Dementor; Harry could still feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face. It couldn't be Voldemort; Harry knew that for a fact. But it could be one of the Death Eaters who had escaped the wrath of the Ministry of Magic.  
  


All Harry could think about was his wand, dropped carelessly on the floor of his bedroom. So here he was, alone with a Squib, no wand with which to defend himself, and an enemy before him. The hooded figure had its wand raised and its free hand reaching out for Harry.


	2. Wandless

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge**

II

Wandless

Harry's first instinct was to disarm the hooded figure before him, but he didn't have a wand. It was a little strange to have to adjust to defence without a wand, but he didn't exactly have the time to ponder it out. Every second, the figure's hand was coming closer to Harry and he couldn't just stand there and let it grab him.

Shoving the chair into the figure's midsection with all of his strength, Harry jumped up onto the table, poised to spring down onto the figure if necessary. Mrs Figg behind him was still frozen in position, but she had unthawed enough to hiss, "Why aren't you using your wand?" at Harry. He couldn't answer. He didn't want to tell his assailant that he was wandless. The hooded figure would have to find that one out on his own. And hopefully Harry could figure something out before then.

The figure doubled over as the chair impacted, but the wand stayed up and pointed at Harry. Growling with rage, the figure threw the chair out of the way like it was made of matchsticks. It crashed through the kitchen window, sending shards of glass showering over the wilted flower beds. Harry jumped from the table, aiming his kick at the wizard's head and trying to grab for the wand as he flew past.

His hand was travelling with too much speed for him to actually be able to grab hold of the wand, even if he had been the youngest house Seeker in a century back at Hogwarts, but he did succeed in knocking the wand out of the stranger's hand and out the window to join the remnants of the chair. Now they were both wandless. At least the fight was evenly matched.

Harry hit the ground and started running, trying to get to the window, and the wand, before his attacker had time to figure out that he was missing his wand. His attempt was only partly successful. He had made it halfway through the window, cutting himself on the points of glass that remained stuck in the frame before he felt hands grabbing his ankle and hauling him back through the way he had come.

Harry stretched frantically, trying to get close enough to grab the wand. It was eerily reminiscent of the way the scene had played out that morning in his room. His fingertips were almost on the wand when it started moving out of reach. Only this time it wasn't merely Uncle Vernon's wrath waiting for him at the other end of his body, but an unknown wizard who had appeared out of nothing.

He could feel the glass tearing into his flesh and the blood rolling from the jagged wounds, but he forced himself to try and stretch just a little further, hopefully far enough to grasp the wand. His efforts were in vain. There was no way that he could reach the wand, it was simply too far.

But his grasping hands did close on something else. In the impact with the ground, the chair had come apart and Harry had managed to brush his hand against one of the splintered legs. It wasn't a wand, but at least it could do some damage to his attacker. 

Spinning around and pulling himself up so that he could reach the figure on his feet, Harry swung wildly with the makeshift club, trying to come into contact with something that would stop the hooded figure. At first he was only finding empty air, but then he heard the resounding clunk of wood connecting forcibly with something solid. One of his ankles was suddenly freed and Harry swung sideways, flesh catching on the broken glass.

Kicking his free foot wildly, Harry tried to pull himself up enough to swing the club at his attacker again. The jerking of his foot was enough to make him slide backwards, toward the wand, once more. Twisting so that the hand holding him also came into contact with the razor-sharp glass, Harry tried to pry the fingers out of their hold with his foot, wincing as he kicked his own flesh deeper into the daggers of glass.

Instead of growling with anger, his attacker was now all but whimpering with pain as Harry's kicking forced their combined flesh into the bits of broken window ever further. Despite the pain, Harry kicked harder, desperate to get free.

There was a howl of pain and the grip slackened. Harry fell to the ground and pulled himself towards the wand. He closed his hand around it and bounded to his feet, biting back screams of his own. There was blood running thickly from gashes all along his torso and legs.

He saw his attacker for only a moment. The hooded figure was clutching his hand, a piece of glass glittering wickedly in the sunlight from where it protruded from the back of his hand. Turning the black hood around to face where Harry stood, wand clutched in his hand, the figure motioned his hand and disappeared. The breeze created by the Disapparation blew the cat food coupons from the fridge.

As the last of the papers fluttered to the ground, Mrs Figg turned around to confront Harry. "Why didn't you use your wand?" she demanded incredulously.

Harry stared at her in surprise. "I don't have it." He had thought that that much had become obvious.

"What do you mean, you don't have it?" she queried in disbelief, staring at his bloodied hand as he clutched the stranger's wand .

"I dropped it when I was leaving and couldn't get to it," he answered, turning to walk around the front of the house to the door. 

"You can't go around the front," Mrs Figg said authoritatively. "The neighbours will see and you know how they like to talk." Harry looked at her as though she had lost her mind. The only entrance through the back of the house was only for cats. Unless she wanted him to crawl back through the window.

"But…" he started awkwardly.

"Just climb through the window," she continued as if he hadn't started to speak. "You don't want the neighbours suspecting anything. I'll go get the iodine."

Harry sighed heavily. He figured that if the neighbours hadn't been alerted by the window shattering or the screams, they weren't going to notice if Harry walked around the front. But there was no sense arguing with someone who wasn't there and he climbed gingerly over the windowsill, trying to not cut himself any more than he had already done. And keeping his eye open for the sudden appearance of another attacker. It wouldn't do to be taken by surprise again. Next time he probably wouldn't be so lucky.

Mrs Figg was back in a moment, a small dark bottle in her hand. "This is iodine, a wonderful Muggle remedy. I don't know why wizards don't use this. It's simply marvellous." Listening to her talk, Harry wouldn't have even known that someone had attacked him only moments ago.

She pressed him down into one of the remaining kitchen chairs and pulled aside the shredded remnants of his jeans to expose the worst of the gashes. Taking a rag, she poured the brown liquid onto the area, dabbing it into every little spot. Harry stifled a groan of pain. It was almost comparable to the time that he had had to re-grow all of the bones in his arm.

As she worked her way from cut to cut, she started to lecture him on the importance of having his wand on his person at all times. "You never can be too sure when you're going to need it. If you hope to be an Auror, you're going to have to learn what an important thing it is to have it ready always. That's how people get killed, you know, when wizards don't have their wands ready all the time."

Harry stopped listening. He knew that it was important to always have his wand on him. He would have been dead many times before if he hadn't been in possession of a wand. He wouldn't have taken on Voldemort with only a broken and battered chair leg and been able to walk away from it.

Instead, he started trying to figure out who the hooded figure could have been. It couldn't have been Voldemort, Harry was quite sure of that. Even Dumbledore had said that this time Voldemort was gone for good. And Harry hadn't felt so much as a twinge from his scar since that last battle.

Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, was under house arrest in his manor until a new Minister of Magic could be appointed and he could be brought to trial. There was a cordon of Ministry wizards posted around the manor and they had placed enough charms on the house that even Dumbledore wouldn't have been able to Apparate out.

All of the other Death Eaters that Harry could think of were also either dead or locked away. Bellatrix LeStrange, Sirius' cousin, had been killed. Peter Pettigrew had also fallen in the last battle. It had been a bittersweet spell for Lupin to cast on his former friend. Many others were in Azkaban or under Ministry house arrest, even the ones that still had the audacity to claim that they had been acting under the Imperius curse. This time the Ministry was taking no chances, even though there was no strong head.

But one of the Death Eaters had to have escaped attention, that much was blatantly obvious. They had been lurking somewhere out of Ministry notice and had decided to try and finish what their master had been unable to. Or, they had decided to take control themselves and raise a new army to follow. The last option caused Harry to shudder. He didn't want to contemplate having to face yet another Dark Lord so soon after he had killed the last.

"It'd be easier if you'd just sit still," Mrs Figg complained.

Harry sighed as he tried to replay the brief battle in his mind in order to solidify the details. He didn't want to overlook anything. But even though the action had finished only minutes before, he found himself unsure of whether or not the attacker had appeared behind his left shoulder or his right. Or even how far the hand had been when Harry threw the chair. Or anything about that attacker beyond the black hooded robe.

Straining his memory, Harry figured that he stood at least a few inches shorter than the figure. It wasn't much, but it was the closest to an identifying feature that Harry had. He had been unable to see the face through the shadow of the hood, and the draping of the robe had hidden any of the stranger's physical aspects. Although, Harry noted with some grim satisfaction, there would be one mark on the man's hand that hadn't been there before.

As Mrs Figg worked her painful way up his legs, Harry turned the wand over in his hands. It was really the only concrete thing that Harry had to identify the assailant. And unless the wizard's name had been carved into it, there really wasn't all that much that Harry could tell from it.

Then he sat bolt upright. He might not be able to tell much of anything for the wand, but he did know someone who would be able to. Mr Ollivander remembered every wand he'd ever sold. Surely he could identify this one! Mrs Figg hadn't yet finished with her 'simply amazing Muggle remedy', but Harry stood anyway. He had to find out who the stranger had been.

"Where are you going?" Mrs Figg asked. "I haven't finished yet."

"I have to go," Harry said, moving away from her. "I have to see someone." He didn't want to have to waste the time trying to explain his trip to Mrs Figg. It was more important that he found out who the wand belonged to. If there was a need for it, he would explain later.

Harry dashed out of the kitchen toward the front door. He needed his trainers. Mrs Figg trailed behind him. "You can't go out the front, someone will see you."

It was a legitimate point. He paused midway through slipping his left foot into the shoe. "I'll Apparate," Harry said. "I've got my test."

"And go wandering about looking like that?" she made a point of staring at his ripped and bloodstained clothing.

Harry sighed. "I was planning to go back and get MY wand first. I'll change while I'm there."

And still Mrs Figg had another argument. "What about your aunt and uncle? Do you want to be out of a home?" But by this time Harry had finished pulling on his shoes and was ready to go, despite the warnings.

"They're away in London. They won't even know," he said, turning the stranger's wand over in his hand once more. It would be so much simpler just to walk over to the Dursleys and not have to chance using this wand, but he would be seen by curious neighbours and be reported to his uncle. "Hopefully I'll be back later."

Just as he Apparated, Harry heard Mrs Figg ask plaintively, "But what about my flowers?" Considering the disaster that was her kitchen, he would have thought her half-dead flowers would have been the least of her concerns.


	3. Diagon Alley

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge**

III

Diagon Alley

Harry disregarded the papers that flew all over his room when he Apparated into it. There would be ample time to clean the mess up after all was said and done. His first priority was to properly arm himself with his own wand. He didn't trust the stranger's wand. There could be any number of curses on it, just waiting for Harry to make one misstep or utter the one spell that would cause them to activate.

Ignoring the blood still dripping from his many lacerations, Harry darted for his wand, still sitting where he had been forced to abandon it that morning. If only he had been able to keep his wand instead of his photo album.

With that thought, he started a bit. He had left his album at Mrs Figg's. While he didn't want to leave it there, he had more important things to worry about at the moment, and finding out the identity of his attacker was the most important. It would take too long to stop back over at Mrs Figg's before he travelled to Diagon Alley, and Mr Ollivander's shop, because Mrs Figg would likely want her flowers fixed. And then her kitchen cleaned.

Shedding his tattered clothes, Harry reached for the first pair of jeans and the first shirt that his hands could find. He wasn't trying to dress for a ball after all. And he was going back into the wizarding world where, no matter how oddly Harry was dressed, there would always be someone who had a more outlandish getup on.

It only took a few minutes for Harry to slap bandages on the worst of the cuts and to pull fresh clothes on over the top. Taking the two wands in his hands, Harry waved his hand and was instantly in front of the entrance to Diagon Alley, the dustbin of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Watch where you appear there," a wizened old wizard said, scuttling sideways and out of Harry's way. "Young people these days don't have half the sense that they need. And they don't use half the sense they were born with."

"I'm really sorry, sir," Harry apologised, perhaps a bit belatedly as the old wizard was already off losing himself in the crowd passing by Diagon Alley. Harry waited for the group to pass and purposefully started off down the street for Ollivander's.

Almost everything in the shop looked the same as it had on Harry's first visit, seven years ago. But although the shop hadn't changed much, Harry knew that he had. No longer was he the nervous boy who knew nothing about magic or the wizarding world. Now he felt more at home here, in this world that he had only known for seven years, than he did anywhere else.

Mr Ollivander hurried from the back of the shop, wiping his hands on a rag of some sort. "Mr Potter," he said happily, "what can I do for you? I know that you already have a perfectly fine wand, holly and phoenix feather."

"Actually," Harry said eagerly, sticking his own wand into his back pocket, "it's not my wand that's the trouble. It's this one." He held out the other wand to Mr Ollivander.

"What's the problem with this wand? It's a fine combination of mahogany and dragon heartstring. Nothing at all wrong with this wand," Mr Ollivander answered, turning the wand over in his hand. "Although it is a bit inflexible for most delicate work, and a bit short for most tastes." He paused and then continued, "Although you know quite well that it is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, and not the other way round."

"I'm sure it's a fine wand, Mr Ollivander," Harry said, perhaps a little desperately, "but I was wondering if you could tell whose it was."

"I remember every wand that I've ever sold." Harry felt as though the name couldn't come soon enough. Why was Mr Ollivander taking so much time in getting to the point? "However, I'm sorry to disappoint you. This isn't one of my wands." A puzzled look crossed the older wizard's face though as he turned the wand over in his hand again. "But I can't be sure made this wand. It doesn't have the balance of a Rybczinski or the craftsmanship of a Gregorovitch."

Harry was crestfallen. He had been so sure that Mr Ollivander would know the wand and be able to tell him exactly who the mystery assailant would be. He had never once stopped to consider that the wand hadn't come from Ollivander's shop.

"It's almost reminiscent of an Oxtoby, but he couldn't compete in the British market. Oxtoby went out of business in the mid-fifties. Became a Goblin Liaison Officer if I recall correctly," Mr Ollivander mused, turning the wand over in his hand once more before holding it out to Harry once again. "Sorry that I couldn't have been of more help."

"It's fine, Mr Ollivander," Harry said, taking the wand back. "It was a long shot anyway. Thanks for your time." Harry turned painfully toward the door, feeling the full effects of the battering he had taken in the assault.

"Not a problem," Mr Ollivander replied. There was a second's pause and then he said, "Are you aware, Mr Potter that you're bleeding?" Harry looked down and saw that in several places blood had seeped through the bandages to leave dark spots of blood on his jeans and shirt. "You should really have the healers at St Mungo's take a look at those. You'll be right as rain again in no time."

"Thanks, Mr Ollivander."

"You're welcome. But one more word of advice. I'd take your wand out of your back pocket. It takes significantly longer to repair a buttock that's been blasted off than it does to mend a few cuts and scrapes."

"Thanks, Mr Ollivander." Harry tiredly reached back to pull his wand out of his pocket. There was no sense arguing even though Harry had never heard of someone who had blown their rear end off merely by putting their wand in their back pocket.

Now, stiff and feeling the pain of his wounds, Harry limped out onto the street. Despite the trip he was no closer to the identity of his attacker than he had been before. All he had for his trouble was the vague and not overly helpful knowledge that the stranger's wand wasn't one of Ollivander's wands.

"Harry Potter?"

Harry turned toward the question slowly; it hurt too much to make quick movements. Even the slow turn of his body made the partly scabbed wounds pull at the surrounding skin. He tried not to wince as he saw Professor McGonagall bearing down on him. "Professor McGonagall."

"What on earth have you done to yourself, Mr Potter?" she said, tilting her head to appraise his condition. She must have been shopping because there was a wicker basket hooked over one arm and she wore set of tartan robes.

"I haven't done anything to myself," Harry answered flatly, but still sounding rather defensive.

"So am I to suppose that those wounds have always been there and I merely overlooked them in the seven years that you attended Hogwarts? And in Madam Pomfrey's many ministrations to you, she also has never noticed them?" McGonagall answered sharply. "Honestly, Mr Potter, what happened?"

"I was attacked," he stated simply.

"Attacked?" McGonagall anwered, voice dropping instantly to a whisper that he remembered far too well from the days of the Order of the Pheonix. "Here?"

"No, not here." He was getting more and more tired and his answers were started to get shorter. "Mrs Figg's."

"Arabella Figg's?" McGonagall repeated, questioning. "By who?"

Harry shrugged in response. "Wish I knew."

He must have looked fairly awful because McGonagall took her free arm, the one not holding the basket, and offered it to him for support. "St Mungo's will have you right as rain before you could even cast the charm," she said, starting to move off down the street. "I'm sure that the Weasley twins will let us use their fireplace, especially when they see the state that you're in."

Harry found that he didn't even have the strength to argue with them. He was grateful for McGonagall's support as they made their way down the crowded street towards the joke shop. And he was even more grateful when McGonagall was the one who pushed her way through the crowd to find Fred or George, leaving him leaning against a wall advertising Skiving Snackboxes and near the display for portable swamps.

One of the two red-headed twins, Harry wasn't sure which, was at his side a moment later, helping McGonagall hoist Harry to his feet while the other parted the considerable crowd. "Thanks Gred, Forge," Harry murmured, using their own confused nicknames for themselves.

"No worries, Harry," the one helping hold him up, Fred, said. "Wouldn't want to see what the other guy looks like."

"No kidding," the second, George, echoed. "Haven't seen you look this worked over since…" He thought for a second and then obviously decided not to finish the thought. Harry knew that it would have been something about the final battle with Voldemort and was grateful to George for not mentioning it.

"I'll owl Mum and have her meet them at St Mungo's," Fred said.

"No," Harry asserted, starting to push Fred and McGonagall away. "I'm fine, really. It's just a few cuts."

"Then why are they oozing purple goo?" George asked, eyebrows raised so high that they very nearly met his hair.

Harry looked down. He was surprised to see that the dark patches on his jeans and shirt that he had assumed were bloodstains were in fact a dark, bubbling purple. He didn't have an answer.

"St Mungo's it is," McGonagall said briskly, pulling Harry over to the fireplace in the corner behind the counter. "Come along, Mr Potter."

Harry followed obediently, noting that although his many gashes were oozing purple goo, he did still have his behind firmly attached, despite having not one, but two wands stuck in his back pocket. He really was starting to feel quite weak and tired, not at all like normal. The room was even starting to spin. Taking a pinch of Floo powder from the jar on the mantle, Harry tossed it into the fire, watching as the flames rose and changed colours. "St Mungo's" he said weakly, taking care to enunciate his words properly. He didn't want to be winding up in some strange fire.

The spinning was almost too much for Harry and he thought that he was going to be sick or pass out, whichever came first. But he arrived before either happened, deposited in an unceremonious heap in front of the fireplace. Knowing that McGonagall wouldn't be far behind, Harry crawled a short distance from the hearth, propping himself up against a nearby column.

But even before McGonagall could step out of the flames, there were wizards in lime green robes rushing toward him. "Here he is."

It was somewhat unnerving to be surrounded by a circle of wizards, all with wands pointed in his direction. And so Harry was glad when McGonagall stepped out of the flames. The circle immediately split in half; one group tightened around him while the other ringed McGonagall.

"I'm with him," McGonagall said, motioning toward Harry and ignoring the soot spotting her robes.. The medi-wizards were instantly scurrying back to Harry.

Within a few moments Harry found himself settled onto a comfortable bed with his many purple gashes exposed to the air. Unfortunately, that meant that he was very nearly naked. And McGonagall was still standing close by.

"Looks like the bites of a Doxy," one said.

"No, they don't ooze that way. Must be a backfired hex of some sort."

"The reaction looks characteristic of aconite, in some ways. But I've only ever seen that colour from dittany poisoning," remarked a third. "But that can't be."

"Do you remember what happened?" the second asked, prodding one of the larger gashes with his wand.

"I fell through a window," Harry answered, having difficulty not slurring his words. "A normal, Muggle window into a flower bed."

"Flower bed?"

"Muggles grow flowers in them. But why would a Muggle have dittany or aconite? Must be a backfired charm." The wizard turned back to Harry. "Do you remember what spell you were trying to cast?"

"None," he asserted. "I fell through a window."

"It's quite alright to tell us. It'll only make things worse if we can't give you the proper treatment." Back to the conference with the others. "It could be a very misdirected slug charm."

"I'm telling you, I fell through a window!" Harry yelled, starting to get upset with the whole situation.

"But a slug charm doesn't cause forgetfulness. And slugs are usually green." They had stopped talking to Harry and were merely conversing among themselves, poking at Harry occasionally.

"Doesn't quite have the right consistency either. This is more of a goo as opposed to a slime. It might be an experimental version of a hex. The young wizards these days aren't content with the old standards."

"I FELL OUT A WINDOW!" Harry hollered. The healers wouldn't get anywhere if they kept talking about what charm or hex had backfired. And Harry had to be back at Mrs Figg's before the Dursleys returned from London, only Harry didn't know when that was supposed to be.

"Look," McGonagall said, stepping forward, "this is Harry Potter." The healers' eyes made the expected sweep up to Harry's forehead. "And if he says that he fell out a window into a flower bed, then that's what happened."

"Well, I still think it looks like aconite."

"No, it's dittany I tell you."

"But a Muggle flower bed?" They had switched topics so fast that it would have made Harry's head spin if it hadn't been whirling faster than a Sneakoscope already.

"It wasn't a Muggle flower bed," Harry rasped, finding that once his anger had faded, so had most of his energy.

"Muggles don't grow --" The healer paused in mid-sentence. "It wasn't a Muggle flower bed? I though he said that it was a Muggle window."

"Squib," Harry noted weakly.

"What would a Squib be doing growing aconite or dittany?"

"Never mind. Get the antidotes."

"And quickly."

And that was the last that Harry heard.


	4. Priceless

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge**

III

Priceless

When Harry awoke, he was laying on a bed and staring up at the ceiling.  It took him a few moments to remember where he was.  St Mungo's.  He turned his head to see Professor McGonagall, still in her tartan robes, sitting stiffly in the chair beside his bed.  At least she still wasn't holding on to her shopping basket.  He didn't see it at her feet when he twisted his head a little more, so he figured that she must have left it back at Fred and George's store.

"Harry?" he heard someone ask from his other side.  He slowly turned his head to face that side, starting to feel better than he had.  Mrs Weasley was sitting, much less stiffly than McGonagall, in another chair.  "Are you awake?"

"I think so," he answered, stretching a little.  Surprisingly he didn't feel the pull of the multitude of scratches he could remember from the last time he had tried to move.  Had the fight back at Mrs Figg's just been a dream?  Then he remembered that the St Mungo's healers wouldn't have left him with open wounds.  Madam Pomfrey certainly wouldn't have and neither would they.

"How are you feeling, Mr Potter?" McGonagall asked, not unkindly.  Harry's face flushed as he remembered how close to being naked he had been when the healers had cut away his clothes.

"Much better, thank you," he answered, pushing himself up into a sitting position.  And noting that he wasn't wearing a shirt.  He kept his hands over the covers just in case he wasn't wearing any pants either.  He really didn't want to be half-clothed in front of his head of house and his best friend's mother.  But he really didn't want them seeing him half-clothed.

"You had us all worried," Mrs Weasley admonished.  "After everything that's happened in the last four years, you couldn't have just one uneventful summer?"  She sounded dangerously close to tears.

"He's fine, Molly," McGonagall comforted, perhaps a little sharply.

"He was attacked," Mrs Weasley hissed, dropping her voice.  "That's hardly fine.  He had to get two doses of antidote before he started to respond to the treatment.  He was covered in cuts and bruises and it took four healers to figure out what was wrong with him."

"That's only because they wouldn't listen when he told them that he fell out of a window," McGonagall reminded her.  "And he needed two doses of antidote because it had been more than an hour since he fell into Arabella's flowerbed."

"He was still attacked," Mrs Weasley maintained.

"About that, Mr Potter.  What exactly happened?"  And both McGonagall and Mrs Weasley leaned forward to hear.  Harry's face flushed a little darker and he clutched at the bedding a little more.

"I'm not quite sure," he answered.  "He just appeared in Mrs Figg's kitchen.  We fought.  And he vanished again."

"He?"

"Well, I don't know for sure that it's a he.  I'm just assuming that because of the way he acted.  It was impossible to tell because he kept his hood up the whole time."

"You didn't mention a hood," Mrs Weasley accused.

"She never asked me," Harry broke in.  "She just found me in Diagon Alley and brought me right here."

"Although why you were in Diagon Alley is a mystery to us all," McGonagall responded, leaning back in her chair again.  Harry relaxed a little, but only a little.

"I wanted to find out who it was.  I thought that Mr Ollivander would recognise the wand, but it wasn't one of his."

"Not one of Ollivander's wands?  Then it has to be from the Continent.  Ollivander has had a monopoly on British wands since the 1950s when Oxtoby went out of business," McGonagall commented, folding her hands on her lap.  Harry watched her out of th corner of his eyes.  It was hard to believe that a living person could sit that stiffly in a chair.  It couldn't be comfortable.

"He mentioned something about that," Harry answered.  He wondered how long he had been out.  He still had to make it back to Mrs Figg's to repair the damage before the Dursleys got back from London.  "Um, what time is it?"

"The time?  Nearly five o'clock."

"Harry, where are you going?"

Nearly naked or no, he had to get back before the Dursleys did and they would already be nearly back to Privet Drive.  Dudley had a television programme on at five-thirty and there would be nothing that could make him miss it.  "I have to get back before the Dursleys do," he said desperately, still clutching the bedding.  He really didn't want the two women to see him in his underwear.

"You can't go anywhere looking like that," McGonagall said pointedly.  Harry wished that a hole would open up to swallow him.

"Let me run back to the Burrow and get some of Ron's old robes for you," Mrs Weasley offered.  Harry's face turned an even darker shade of red and he wondered if his face was as purple as Uncle Vernon's got when he was yelling at someone.

"I really have to be going," Harry squeaked.  "They'll be back any time now."

"You really don't have to appease those Muggles any longer, Mr Potter," McGonagall pointed out.  Harry's eyebrows came together in a knot.  It was true that he no longer needed the protection that they had once provided for him.  And they had never treated him kindly.  But they were the only family that he knew.

"All of my stuff is still back there," he finally said.  It was true.  And he also did want to find out exactly what Aunt Petunia had meant when she said 'He's all I have left of her' and if he wasn't back by the time they came to collect him, he would never find out.

"It won't take more than a minute," Mrs Weasley assured him.  And she was hurrying away, muttering to herself about sizes and storage trunks.

McGonagall was completely unconcerned by the whole situation and she sat in her chair quite calmly.  Harry sat back down on the bed, feeling as though it gave him more coverage.  "I'm surprised that you haven't taken the opportunity to fly from those Muggles as fast as your broomstick will take you," she said.

"The Statute of Secrecy, Professor," Harry pointed out, glad to have remembered at least something from Professor Binn's droning lectures.  "I couldn't ride my broomstick away if I wanted to."

"Really, Potter, you know what I mean."  She wasn't amused.  But after a second she did smile at him, at least she smiled at him as much as McGonagall ever smiled at anyone.

Harry shrugged.  "Ron's away visiting Charlie in Romania and Hermione is touring Canada with her parents as a graduation trip.  Neville's off on a herbology study in the Amazon, and I wouldn't have gone to his grandmother's anyway.  I really didn't have anywhere else to go."

"What about Grimmauld Place?"

Harry shuddered.  While it was true that he had been left the Black family home in Sirius's will, and the house was no longer being used as the secret headquarters of the Order of the Pheonix, they had never really been able to get the place clean, despite all of their hard work.  And it held too many bad memories.  He hadn't been back except on Order business since after the second Ministry battle.

"I suppose that after Mr Weasley returns you'll go to the Burrow," McGonagall continued, noting his shudder and correctly interpreting it.  "You know that Ron's family would be happy to have you, even if Ron isn't there."

Harry knew that it was true, but he didn't want to intrude on them.  It had been hard for them during the series of battles leading up to Voldemort's final defeat, especially for Ron's mother.  With two of her sons, herself and her husband active members of the Order, two more who had dropped out of school and were fighting whenever they got the chance, and her youngest two children continually being dragged along, and their last son not on speaking terms with them for a while, it had been one of Mrs Weasley's worst nightmares.

"Probably," he answered, wishing that Mrs Weasley would hurry up with some clothes.  "I think he's coming back at about the same time as Hermione and then we're all going to meet there."

"I'm really sorry, Harry," Mrs Weasley said, hurrying up.  "The ghoul in the attic wouldn't let me up to get at Ron's old things and the only robes I could find were some of Ginny's school robes."  Harry turned to look at her, hoping against hope that what she was holding in her arms weren't what she had just declared them to be.  "They're big on her and they'll be a little short, but I really couldn't find anything else without turning the house upside-down."

Harry leaned his head back against the wall.  This hadn't been a good day so far.  "Thank you, Mrs Weasley," he answered, trying not to let his voice sound strained.  He could see McGonagall out of the corner of his eye and it almost looked as though she were choking back laughter for a second.  But only for a second.

"I'm really sorry, Harry," Mrs Weasley apologised again, her face as red as her hair.  "But you really can't go gadding about the way you are."

And so three minutes later he was again fully clothed.  Well, he was at least wearing clothes.  Ginny's robes were decidedly too short for him.  The sleeves came to just past his elbows and the robes themselves were short enough to bare most of his leg.  But, as Harry had to keep telling himself, at least he was wearing clothes again.

"Harry, are you alright?" Mrs Weasley called nervously from the other side of the partition.

He really had no choice but to leave the privacy of the partition.  He couldn't Apparate from there and he was racing the clock to get back before the Dursleys did.  So, sighing, he stepped around the partition and out into the ward.  Mrs Weasley was hovering nervously a few feet away and McGonagall was still seated in her chair.

Mrs Weasley's eyes widened when she saw Harry, but thankfully she didn't say a word.  McGonagall stood when she heard his footsteps come around the corner.  This time she couldn't stop the corners of her lips from turning up and Harry could see that she was choking back laughter.  She did a surprisingly good job because after only a second, she was able to speak in a voice that betrayed no hint of her mirth.  "Well, Mr Potter, somehow I don't think that's quite how Madam Maulkin intends her robes to be worn.  But under the circumstances, I suppose that exceptions can be made."

Harry's eyebrows went up.  Had McGonagall actually been making a joke?

Mrs Weasley stepped up quickly, nervously fussing.  "I really wish that there would have been something else.  Perhaps one of Arthur's…"

"It's okay, Mrs Weasley," Harry said, stepping away as she reached out to readjust the shoulders of the robe.  "If I could just get my wand, I really have to get back."  And, he added to himself, get into some real clothes.

McGonagall, her face completely composed by now, reached into a pocket of her robe and withdrew two wands.  One Harry recognised as his own.  The other he recognised as the wand he had taken from his assailant that morning.  "I believe that these are what you're looking for?"

Harry hurried over, his face still beet red.  "Yes, Professor."

"If you would permit me to have this wand," she said, selecting the stranger's wand, "I will see about finding out who it's rightful owner is."  She held his own wand out for him to take.

Harry nodded his agreement and hurried off down the hall.  He was cutting the time very close and while he didn't enjoy living with the Dursleys, he didn't want that only connection, and the only place he had to live at the moment, cut off.

As Harry hurried off down the hall, Mrs Weasley watched him go.  When he was safely out of earshot, she turned to McGonagall.  "You could easily have transfigured something or conjured something?  Why didn't you?"  The question was almost accusatory.

"Oh, Molly," McGonagall said, letting uncharacteristic laughter leak into her voice, "that was too priceless for words."

Mrs Weasley let the contrite expression drop from her face.  She considered it for a second. Then she too broke out with a smile.  "I could have brought her dress robes," she said with a laugh, "but I thought that he would appreciate those even less."


	5. Minister of Magic?

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge**

IV

Minister of Magic?

            Harry started upright in bed as the owl rapped again at his window.  It took him a moment to figure out what was going on, but when he had, he padded quietly over to le the owl in.  He didn't want it to wake his aunt and uncle.

            He was counting down the final days until Ron returned.  Then he could leave Privet Drive behind him.  Hermione had already sent several excited owls to Harry, much to the embarrassment and anger of the Dursleys when one had arrived during breakfast, sweeping down over the table to drop it's load, much like it would have at Hogwarts.  Aunt Petunia had screamed.  Uncle Vernon had tried to wring Harry's neck.  And Dudley had tried to catch it to have something else to torture.  Dudley still had marks from the owl's sharp beak.

            The letter born by the sleek tawny owl was on heavy ivory parchment and for a moment Harry almost expected it to be his Hogwarts letter.  But school was behind him and he was looking forward to getting started on Auror training, provided he was accepted of course.  He was starting to get anxious about that.  How long could it possibly take for the Ministry to get back to him?

            Then the thought struck him that it might be a Ministry letter and he tore into it eagerly.  It wasn't the Ministry letter that he had been so eagerly anticipating.  Instead it was a letter written in McGonagall's stiff hand.  She had found out something about the identity of 'the object in question'.  It was obvious from her couched phrases that she wasn't entirely trusting of the deliverer to get the message safely through.  It was a feeling that had pervaded the correspondence between members of the Order during the time when it had still existed.

            Harry supposed that it made sense to keep the same veiled phrases in use now.  The fight obviously still wasn't over, even if they were no longer fighting the evil behind it.  It had been impossible for the Ministry to round up all of the Death Eaters, especially because some of them had been undercover agents for Voldemort and could therefore escape detection.  No one knew how many of them still lurked in the wizarding society.  But the general thought had been that with the mastermind and his top lieutenants out of the picture, they wouldn't have the ability or the desire to cause much more trouble.  They had hoped that the remaining Voldemort follows would be content to live normal lives and stay out of Azkaban.

            Obviously, the thinking was overly naïve.  At least one, and probably more, of Voldemort's remaining followers wanted revenge for the downfall of their master.  Harry was curious as to what McGonagall had discovered, but he knew that under the circumstances it would be impossible to get anything further out of her through the owl post.  Perhaps if he was connected to the Flue network, he'd be able to talk to her, but it was possible that even those could be put under surveillance, as Umbridge had proved during Harry's fifth year.

            And she hadn't said anything about a time or place for a meeting.  She probably hadn't wanted that to be found should the letter have been intercepted.  Chaffing under the secrecy and eager to know how he would get the information, he started to read the letter again.  He hadn't found anything when he felt a familiar tugging at his navel.  It was the sign of a Portkey going to work.

            Reaching for his wand, Harry didn't know where he was going to find himself.  But past experience had taught him to be prepared for all eventualities.  Various scenarios flashed quickly through his mind and he almost expected himself to be surrounded by a ring of hooded figures.  But instead he wound up in front of a table set for tea in Dumbledore's office.

            McGonagall and Dumbledore were already seated at the table.  "Right on time," Dumbledore commented, flipping his pocket watch closed and sliding it into a pocket of his robes.  "You may put your wand down, Mr Potter.  We won't harm you."  He chuckled a little, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

            "Of course, Professor Dumbledore," Harry murmured, slipping the wand back into his pocket.  Despite the multitude of warnings he had received, he still continued to carry his wand in his back pocket.  It was simply the most convenient place for it.  And he'd believe the stories about missing backsides when he actually saw it happen.

            "I must remember to congratulate Professor Flitwick on that charm," Dumbledore mused.  "Splendid bit of work, being able to tailor a Portkey to work only for a specific person."

            "Have a seat," McGonagall said firmly, motioning to an empty chair by her side.  There was a cup and saucer waiting for him and there was more than enough food there to feed the three of them.  It was apparent that Hermione had never managed to convince the house elves that they deserved equal treatment and vacations.

            Harry lowered himself cautiously to the chair, looking from Dumbledore to McGonagall.  They both looked calmly back at him.  "You could have warned me that the letter was a Portkey," he said.

            "I suppose that it reminded you of Cedric?" Dumbledore asked gently.  Harry didn't even bother to nod; the two of them knew what he had thought of.  And if they didn't, then they really didn't need to know.  "There really was no other way to ensure that an interception wouldn't compromise the message.  Have a tart."

            Harry sighed and helped himself to a pastry from the plate Dumbledore was offering.  "With the Ministry still in disarray, it was difficult to track down any information about wand registry.  They simply don't seem to feel that it's at the top of their priorities," McGonagall started, pouring herself a cup of tea.  She rolled her eyes, obviously disappointed with the state of the Ministry.

            "Be fair, Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted.  "At the moment the ministry is being run by whoever happens to be head of their department.  And in most cases, that winds up being some junior staffer who has never so much as seen a classified document."

            "It's been months," she retorted.  "Surely some sort of structure could start to emerge from the chaos.  Perhaps even someone who could act as a competent Minister, even in the interim."

            "We have already discussed this as far as I am willing to have it discussed," Dumbledore said firmly.  Harry could tell just by the tone that he was finished that line of the conversation.  "Perhaps we could continue on to what we have brought Harry here to discuss."  The statement was phrased as a suggestion, but in fact it was anything but.

            "We finally managed to track down some information about Oxtoby," McGonagall said rather huffily.  "It appears that after he officially closed his business, he continued to make wands on the side.  It turns out that most of these wands went to Death Eaters who had lost their own wands after being taken prisoner by the Ministry or who had them broken in battle."

            "However," Dumbledore said, picking up the conversation, "it will be impossible to obtain further information directly from Oxtoby himself as he was killed by Voldemort during the final siege for shoddy workmanship.  At that point he was trying to satisfy demands that would have had a full time wand maker hard-pressed and still trying to maintain his position at the Goblin Liaison Office.  He missed one of the crucial steps for one wand and it got one of Voldemort's followers killed."

            "We did, however, find a box of record seized during one of the early investigations.  We're trying to get access to it, but with the state of the ministry…"  McGonagall let her voice trail off with a sniff of obvious disgust.  "There's a list of all the wands Oxtoby made prior to the seizure of the box.  There's a chance that they one you took could be listed.  It may not tell us who's wand it was, but at least we'll have a little more information."

            "If it doesn't tell us whose it was, what can it possibly tell us?" Harry asked, helping himself to another cream puff.  Dudley was on another diet and such foods had been outlawed in the Dursley house.

            "He was meticulous; he documented almost every step of the process for every wand.  Remember, Mr Potter, it's the wand that chooses the wizard and each step in the process influences what type of wizard the wand will choose.  Mr Ollivander has been kind enough to offer his knowledge of what type of wizard likely used the wand," Dumbledore explained patiently.

            "How exactly does that help?"

            "It narrows our search," McGonagall provided.  "And considering that at the moment we don't have a starting point, we need to start somewhere.  That is, of course, provided that the Ministry can sort itself out sufficiently to allow access to the files."  Her voice was completely disdainful.  It had quickly become obvious that she had no respect what-so-ever for the people struggling to keep the Ministry functioning.

            "Why hasn't someone been named Minister yet?" Harry asked, well aware that he was likely venturing into dangerous territory.  But he couldn't help but ask, especially after the previous exchange between the two professors.

            "The people who fought with us don't trust the people who didn't.  And the people who didn't are the ones who are still in positions of power.  So it's a stalemate between the people who actually have power and the ones who are in the positions."  She kept her voice carefully calm and didn't so much as glance over at Dumbledore.  "Right now, there's only one person who could take control of the situation and he refuses."

            "That's not quite true," Dumbledore answered.  "There are several people who could take control of the situation, as you have so aptly put it, and some of them are more than willing."

            "And most of those people are completely unsuitable for the position," she retorted.  It was obvious that this was a discussion that the two of them had had more than once already.  "And the one that may have been suitable is quite simply not in the position to take over the Ministry at this point in time.  You know that as well as I do, Albus."

            It appeared almost as though they had forgotten Harry was there.  "Honestly, Minerva, Arthur Weasley has worked with the Ministry all of his adult life.  I'm sure that if he were approached, he would be more than willing."

            Harry's green eyes widened.  They were considering Ron's dad as a possible replacement for the Minister of Magic!  It would be a considerable promotion from his current position.  But McGonagall was right, it would be hard to elevate him to the top position in the Ministry.  He would do a good job, Harry had no doubts at all about that.  

            "It would be difficult," McGonagall pointed out, "even without the complications that Percy caused.  It will be hard to make people forget that Percy is Arthur's son."

            "That's beside the point.  They are two completely different people.  And even though Percy had aligned himself with Fudge, he voluntarily joined us long before most other members of the Ministry.  Even though it was months after the admission that Voldemort had returned."  Dumbledore reached out for a tart determinedly.  In the process, he caught sight of Harry.

            McGonagall followed Dumbledore's gaze.  "You understand, Harry," she said sternly, "that you are not to repeat any of the conversation that you have just overheard.  And you will especially not breathe a word to Ron or any other member of the Weasley family."

            "Arthur Weasley hasn't even been approached with this idea yet," Dumbledore cautioned.

            "Concern yourself with other things," McGonagall said, voice still firm.  Her voice left no room for argument.  But Harry knew that he would tell Ron and Hermione anyway.  McGonagall and Dumbledore probably knew too.


	6. The Last of Privet Drive

**Harry Potter and the Wizard's Revenge**

V

The Last of Privet Drive

            "I hope you've all your things," Aunt Petunia began staring at the trunk in the centre of Harry's room.

"Because we're not letting you come back for them," Uncle Vernon growled happily.  He actually wore a wide smile on his face.  After all of these years of trying having to put up with Harry, all of it was finally coming to an end and once again they could have a nice, normal life.  They could finally have the sort of life that all of the other inhabitants of Privet Drive had.

Harry didn't hardly bother to look in his uncle's direction.  He supposed that he should be grateful to them for taking him in and keeping him safe, but he couldn't quite bring himself to it.  Every time he started to feel the slightest bit grateful, he would remember the closet beneath the stairs and the spiders and everything else and that little bit of thankfulness would start to fade.  Even after that odd night when he had heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon arguing, he still couldn't help but feel elation that he was finally leaving and that he would never have to come back ever again.

Harry anxiously checked the clock on the wall.  Hermione was supposed to be picking him up soon and they were going to London together.  They were to spend the afternoon shopping in Diagon Alley before meeting Ron's train at the station.  Then the three of them were expected back at the Burrow for supper with the whole Weasley clan.  Harry had been looking forward to it ever since Hermione's letter had arrived by owl post last week.

Knowing he had to get his trunk downstairs, and knowing that he no longer had to appease the Dursleys, it took all of his self-control not to simply cast a levitating spell on his trunk and levitate it downstairs.  It wasn't that he didn't want to upset his aunt and uncle; that was the farthest thing from his mind.  It was that they were Muggles and he didn't want a citation from the Ministry to arrive.  He especially didn't want that when they were still considering his application.

It hadn't taken nearly so long for the previous years to find out when they would be starting their training, Ron had said that much in his last letter, complaining that Bill, Charlie, and Percy had found out within a couple of weeks.  Maybe it was because of the trouble in the Ministry, Harry had reflected, thinking back to the conversation McGonagall and Dumbledore had had when he was at Hogwarts.  He still hadn't mentioned that to Ron or Hermione, not wanting to tell as story like that in a letter.  Hermione would likely have million questions and Ron would probably keel over with shock.

A grin broke out on Harry's face as he imagined Ron's reaction to his father becoming Minister of Magic.  "What are you smiling about?" Dudley asked rudely.  Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had moved off to gloat somewhere else and Dudley's immense bulk now filled the doorway.

Harry would have answered back, probably with something rude, but he heard the sound of a car pulling up in the drive.  A quick glance at the clock showed that it was exactly the time that Hermione had specified in her letter.  It was just like her, not a second too early and not a second too late.  "Out of my way," Harry demanded, tugging at his trunk.

"Or what?" Dudley challenged, raising his fists.  He obviously thought that he would use Harry as a punching bag one more time, for old times sake.

"Or we'll see how you look with a tail again," Harry suggested.  "Or with your tongue swelling out of your mouth."  Dudley hadn't had the best of experiences with wizards.  One of Dudley's hands wandered unconsciously to his mouth, the other to his fat bottom.  He stood for a second like that, then scurried out of Harry's way.

As Harry lugged his trunk out of the room that was no longer his, Dudley's door slammed closed and Harry could hear the click of the lock.  On this last day, Dudley obviously wasn't taking any chances.  Outside, the car engine had turned off.  As Harry tried not to bang his trunk down the stairs, he heard the knocks at the door.

Uncle Vernon answered it, all but glowing at the fact that Harry was finally out of his life.  He was obviously expecting for Harry to leave in some outlandishly abnormal way.  "I'm sorry, but we already gave to whatever you're collecting for," he told Hermione, shutting the door firmly in her face.

Harry had seen her at the door, looking like a perfectly respectable person.  He knew that Uncle Vernon would never suspect someone so normal looking of being a witch.  But Hermione hadn't graduated at the top of their class for nothing.  And as Uncle Vernon was turning around to go back to his television programme, Hermione appeared with a pop in front of him.  "Hello, Mr Dursley," she said politely.

            Uncle Vernon's face started turning purple and his bristly moustache started twitching irritably.  Hermione calmly stuck her wand back into her pocket and extended a hand to him.  Uncle Vernon did nothing for a moment, staring at her outstretched hand.  Then he said gleefully, "I don't have to put up with your kind anymore.  The boy is out of our house for good."

Hermione kept her hand extended politely.  "He's not out of your home yet, Mr Dursley.  And I seem to think that it would be best if you didn't insult 'our kind' too much.  After all, you never can quite tell who exactly is one of us," she pointed out.  "Some wizards would be quite angry at having a door slammed in their face."

Uncle Vernon's face faded from purple to red, then continued on to white as he tried to figure whether she was going to do anything or not.  Then he grudgingly took her hand and shook it limply, letting go as soon as he could and then slinked away.  Harry finished dragging his trunk down the last few steps, dropping it with a bang.  Hermione turned to see what the noise had been and when she saw that it was Harry, her face broke out into a wide grin.

"Harry," she said delightedly, "I'm so glad to see you again."  She hurried over to him, giving him a hug.  "I can't believe that the summer's almost over already.  It seems as though it's just hardly begun."

Harry would have disagreed.  He hadn't been travelling to interesting parts of the world, or visiting family, or studying plants, or anything interesting.  He had just been stuck here, much as he had been for every other summer.  "It's good to see you again too, Hermione," was all he said, deciding not to mention anything else.  She still didn't know that he had been attacked by a Death Eater or any of the other stuff that had happened.  There would be time for all of that later, when Ron was around too.

When she pulled away from him, she said, "Well, come on then.  I managed to get loan of the car.  I'm to leave it at the station in London," she explained.  "I didn't think that the Dursleys would like it much if we Apparated."

"You forget, Hermione," Harry said, actually starting to realise that he'd never again have to worry about what the Dursleys thought about magic, "that I don't have to worry about what they have to say anymore."  Sure, he was connected to his aunt and uncle through blood, but they had never really been family.

"Well," she answered, a little primly, "still."  Then she grinned at him again.  "You've got everything?"

"If I don't, I'm not coming back for it," Harry answered firmly, eager to get away from Privet Drive and everything that it stood for.  His trunk had been magically enlarged to hold everything, even Hedwig's freshly scoured cage.  Hedwig herself had been sent ahead to Ron's by way of Hogwarts, checking with McGonagall for any news of the owner of the mysterious wand.  Even the spot under the loose floorboard was empty.  He hadn't left so much as a dust bunny in what had once been Dudley's second bedroom.

"Then what are we waiting for?" she asked excitedly.  Harry picked up his trunk and dragged it out after her toward the car.  He didn't even bother to look back over his shoulder at the Dursley's house.  He was leaving for good.

It took both Harry and Hermione to lift the trunk into the boot of the car.  Harry had been intending to cast a lightening spell on it but between his relatives coming to his room to gloat, he hadn't had the chance.  And neither of them wanted to risk Ministry attention now that their letters could be coming at any time.  It was amazing that Hermione had dared Apparate into the house.

The ride to London passed fairly quickly.  Or rather, it seemed to pass quickly.  Hermione had a lot of stories about her summer; she had spent some time with freshly graduated Canadian wizards that McGonagall had put her in touch with.  Apparently they had a few extra classes over and above the Hogwarts staples and Hermione was anxious to pass along the new counter-curses and alternate wording that she had been taught.  Although Harry didn't quite see why he needed to know three or four different ways to transport things, he listened politely.

"Oh, dear," she said as they pulled up in front of the Leaky Cauldron, "I didn't mean to talk so much, Harry.  I wanted to hear about your summer too."

"I'll tell you and Ron at the same time," he promised, climbing out of the car and watching as Hermione put an anti-theft charm on the car.  The pub wasn't in the best area of town, but with charms like that, they had no need to worry that it wouldn't be there when they got back.

            It was quite a change from the last time that Harry had been in Diagon Alley, battered and bruised after his battle with his surprise assailant.  "I'm excited to see what new things Fred and George have done to their shop," she said, leading them past the ragtag assortment of patrons to the dustbin at the rear.  "I heard that they completely re-decorated everything."

Harry nodded agreeable.  He had been in the joke shop, that last time he had visited the alley, but he hadn't exactly been in the condition to admire the décor, even if he had been inclined to.  "I'm glad that they're doing well," he said.  Mrs Weasley still hadn't quite forgiven them for not finishing Hogwarts and getting their NEWTs, but they were happy, she couldn't deny that.  So she had managed to accept the fact that two of her sons wouldn't be graduating, but that still didn't mean that she was happy about it.

The street was bustling with the normal back-to-school crowd.  They saw several groups of people weighed down with all of the usual packages that came with being a first year student: robes from Madam Maulkin's, a wand from Ollivander's, a pewter cauldron, a set of beginning spell books, the basic potion supplies.  It seemed so long ago that Harry had been there with Hagrid seeing all of these things for the first time.  Harry stopped for a second, just looking around.

"Come on," Hermione said excitedly, tugging at his arm.  She was obviously burdened by no such feelings of sentimentality.  

"I'm coming," Harry laughed, turning to follow her towards Fred and George's shop.  It was amazing that Hermione, of all people, was this excited about visiting a joke shop, of all things.  Flourish and Blotts was something more her normal style.  But then again, Flourish and Blotts wasn't run by two of their friends.

The shop was busy, as always, but one red-headed twin was still lazing at the doorway.  "Oi, George," he called to the other twin, the one who was no doubt inside helping the customers, "we've got visitors."

George emerged from inside the shop, looking not at all concerned about the gaggle of young wizards inside the shop.  "Harry!  Hermione!" he called waving a hand above his head.  "So good of you to visit us when you don't just need to borrow our fireplace."

            Hermione looked between George and Harry with a confused look on her face.  She knew that she was missing something, but she didn't know what.  And it bothered her.  Harry knew that it did.  He also knew that she wouldn't give up until she found out what she didn't know.  When she was looking back at the twins, Harry made a quick 'cut it out' motion.  He wasn't ready to tell her yet.

            Hermione looked back just in time to catch the tail end of the motion.  Harry tried to nonchalantly turn it into a wave, but he could tell by the way one of her eyebrows was dipped slightly that she knew something was going on.  She was about to ask when Fred came to Harry's rescue, sweeping her into the store.  "Welcome to the newly re-designed Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes," he said proudly, sweeping a hand to the interior.

            She was confused.  Nothing appeared to have changed from her last visit.  Even Harry had to admit that he couldn't see where anything was different.  "It's, um." Hermione started, not quite sure what to say.

            "It's exactly the same," George supplied happily.  "Save for one thing."

            Hermione and Harry both looked around again, but still couldn't find the change.  "I'm not quite."

            Fred cut her off before she had a chance to get any further.  "Take a look behind the counter."

            Hermione had to stand on her tiptoes to see over the heads of the people waiting in line.  Lee Jordan waved happily from his place behind the register.  "I thought he was announcing Quidditch games for Puddlemere," Hermione stated.

            "He is."

            "But he works here when they're not playing."

"It got too busy for the two of us.

            "Or rather, it got so that we had to do too much work."

"We're lazy, you know."

            "And this gives us more time to experiment with new recipes."

"We've developed three new varieties of Skiving Snackboxes."  The twins switched back and forth from one to the other happily.

"You know, Hermione, there'll always be a place for you here," Fred offered.  "We've got a first rate lab in the back, patterned after Snape's dungeons."

            "Only not so dirty."

            "Or cold."

            "Or smelly."  Both twins laughed.  "I guess that it's not so much like the dungeons after all."

            "Thanks for the offer," Hermione said, a little stiffly.  "But I think I'll just wait until after I've heard what the Ministry has to say."

            "Whatever strikes your fancy."

            "So," Fred said, draping an arm across Hermione's shoulders, "where are we off to?"

            "We?" Hermione questioned.

            "We have an employee," George explained, that hint of pride still in his voice.  It was almost as though he still hadn't gotten over the thrill of saying it.  "And so -"

            "We are taking the day off," Fred finished.  "Just let us get our jackets."

            "It's really too hot for dragon skin," Hermione protested weakly as the two hurried off.  He knew what jackets she was thinking of, horrible gaudy green ones.

            "You know, Hermione," Harry said, "I think I'll ask where Fred and George got those jackets.  I think that they're rather sharp, don't you?"  He grinned at her.  "You think they'd make a good impression at a Ministry interview?"

            She groaned and buried her face in her hands.  "Don't you dare, Harry Potter.  Don't you even dare," she threatened.

            "What's wrong, Hermione?" George asked.  "Don't you like our jackets?"

            She looked up, trying to formulate some polite answer.  "I do," she choked out.

"But you haven't even looked at them yet," Fred pointed out.  And when Hermione actually looked at the twins, she saw that they weren't wearing the green ones.  They weren't wearing jackets at all.  "We didn't think that the dragon skin went well with our complexions."

            "And Mom threatened to do all sorts of things to us if we ever wore them out in public again," George supplied, chuckling along with Hermione.  "They really were pretty bad, weren't they?"

            "I didn't say it," she protested weakly.

            "And I think that you were just about the only one."

            "So, what brings the two of you to Diagon Alley this fine day?" George continued, leading Hermione out of the bustling store and into the equally bustling alley.  "I know for a fact that the two of you don't need to do any back-to-school shopping this year."  Then, if it was possible, his grin got even wider.  "Isn't it wonderful?"

            Hermione sniffed.  Fred cut her off before she had a chance to reply.  "We know that YOU liked school, but that's not to say that the rest of us did.  Am I right in guessing that the two of you both have applications in all over the place?"

            "Not all over the place," Hermione answered sounding defensive.  "Only a few places.  Seven.  Well, ten."

            "This coming from the classic overachiever," one twin retorted.  "You don't need to remind us that you got so many OWLs and NEWTs that OUR mother just about started crying with happiness."

            "And then she sent off another howler to us to make sure we remembered that we never finished school.  Now, Harry, you and Ron did us much better in that regard.  We only got regular letters when your results came in."

            Harry couldn't help the colour that rose in his face.  It wasn't necessarily his fault that he hadn't done as well in his NEWTs as he would have liked.  With everything that had been going on during the last year and his coming out of the hospital wing just in time to sit the first of his exams, he thought that he had put in a rather good showing.  It wasn't up to Hermione's standard but, then again, no one was up to Hermione's standard.

            "Not that we blame you or anything, Hermione."


End file.
